You Shall Scream My Name
by craple
Summary: "It is the most intimate, mind-blowing activity than what we can ever hope for in this afterlife of ours, my love," says Reaper as he runs a thumb down Quentyn's inner thigh. "Far better than the best sex you have ever engaged in, I will wager." Gerris/Quentyn.


Written for myself as an exercise. A porn-writing-exercise to be precise, and I am just really, really bored, and this fandom is oh so dull without any Quentyn/Gerris. So. Maybe I just want to see a fic of them out here before posting another. Hint: a long, 12k fic of slash porn. Yay.

Leave some review and let me know what you think!

* * *

So this thing between them is not, not new at all.

One day they met, Quentyn reminds himself, amazing sex with a vampire that could barely contain his emotions despite him being, you know, dead, turned bad, and voila; Quentyn was alive once again. Except that his heart beat no longer. The naked flesh of his throat was savagely ripped apart. And he was buried six-feet under with the guy whom he had sex with. Oh, and of course, the part where they were both naked as the guy uhh, _drank_ from his neck, hips rolling sensuously against Quentyn with his, his _cock_ so fucking _deep_ inside Quentyn's ass, should not be forgotten.

The first ten years is more difficult to Quentyn than it is to the Reaper. He has some difficulties controlling his urge, attacking random citizens in a rather messy, not so graceful way that makes his maker laughing so loud the entire continent of Babylon can probably hear him over all the other shit that's been happening (some things like humans' occasional 'slip up' of silver dust into their food that poisons their blood, poisons whoever vampire that dares lay its hands on them, he tries not to pry too deep). Another difficulty that Quentyn feels most uncomfortable with, far worse than feeding on humans' flesh, is his forced-submission toward his maker.

"Come here Quent," his maker says, arms extended, wide grin on his impossibly gorgeous face. "Let us venture _deep_ inside this _marvellous_ place of whores called House Lannister." Rather than a friendly offer, it is a command that forces Quentyn's feet to move from the place he has grown to fascinate as far away from House Lannister as he can without showing his discomfort to his maker. It is inevitable however, for the Reaper to feel the quiet turmoil inside the frozen body of his child, the nervousness that washes over his blood-filled veins, and the Reaper is nothing but the type of person who takes what he wants by whatever means possible.

His beautiful face turns stone-cold, then he commands in a voice smooth as silk yet sharper than any blades; "Come."

And Quentyn is beside his maker in a flash, absolutely horrified at the pull knotting in his brain, the pain inside his stomach coming alive and burns at his skin at the slightest sign of resistance. It matters not to the Reaper. He comes.

* * *

Next twenty years is not really easy on Quentyn either, though he has a certain Reaper to thank for that. Reaper never tells him his purpose, their next destination, or what Quentyn wishes to know. Although he does tell him some things, they are mostly landscapes of the other countries he has visited or which wines are the finest. When he is drunk, Reaper tells Quentyn more things than he should. Things like how to drain blood properly without ripping the human's flesh or tearing the veins apart until it all simply becomes a big pile of mess.

One night, one day, he tells Quentyn of the lovers' blood exchange. "It is the most intimate, mind-blowing activity than what we can ever hope for in this afterlife of ours, my love," says Reaper as he runs a thumb down Quentyn's inner thigh. "Far better than the best sex you have ever engaged in, I will wager." He whispers throatily into the younger vampire's ear, nibbling at the lobe with sharp extended fangs before gripping Quentyn's half-hard cock roughly in his hand. The raven-haired gasps in shock, stutters some incoherent words in his dead-language all the while trying not to thrust forward into the iron fist.

He fails, terribly. Reaper grins a big mocking grin, leans down to the spot where his veins are fluttering in arousal beneath the thin skin of his neck to graze his fangs on the surface. Quentyn moans in shame, thick with lust.

"Would you like to try it, Quent? Sinking those pretty fangs of yours into my neck, drink my blood, see if I bleed as beautifully red as your preys was?" asks the Reaper in purely curious, low and heavy and smoky tone that makes the young vampire shudder. The fangs break into his skin when his maker laughs in delight. "I for one, would definitely _love_ to do that. Because you see, my love," he says, strokes Quentyn's clothed groin with a thumb as he ushers the raven-haired down on to the ground. "It gets me hard."

Quentyn lets out a keening-moan and fucks into Reaper's hand at that.

Reaper, ashy-golden haired and stunningly gorgeous, growls a wild possessive primal growl deep in his throat and sinks his teeth deep into Quentyn's neck. A hand pushes Quentyn's extended fangs into the crook of his neck, urging him to do the same, and there is a command in there, somewhere. "You shall scream my name as you reach oblivion, my dearest Quent," Reaper murmurs against his neck, lapping at the wound before sinking back in again. Quentyn takes that as a cue to dive in, and comes at the sweet intoxicating taste of his maker's blood.

"It's _Gerris_, Quent, _say it!_" he commands.

In the end, he does not call his name, and Gerris makes it his ultimate goal to get him screaming for his name even if it takes forever to do so.

* * *

A thousand year later and yes, okay, it does not take forever, no longer.

* * *

So. Yes. That's it. Very short, I know, very dull, okay. Crack pairing is sort of my thing so if you want to, like, request a fic of a, you know, crack pairing? Slash or not, I'd write you one. Have another Aegon/Arya saved up, not yet finished, if you'd like? Yeah, leave a review~


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